University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene.—Under the cloisters of a monastery. In the centre of the stage a graveyard; in the graveyard, conspicuous among other tombs, is a tall monument. Procession of Monks crosses the stage at back. Moonlight.
Dominic discovered seated, reading. To him enters Anselm.
Dom.
Pax vobiscum, father!

Ans.
Benedicite!
I am rejoiced that, after many perils
By sea and land, I am once more among you.
How fares our poor sick Faustus?

Dom.
By Heaven's grace,
He is, in body, well—yet much I fear
There lies some hidden canker at his soul.
When he was prostrate on a fevered bed,
The utterings of his delirium
Were rather those of some base man of sin,
Than of a holy father, vowed to heaven.

Ans.
Thy news is grave indeed; but knowest thou this
Of thine own knowledge?

Dom.
Ay, in truth I do.
I took my turn with others at his bed,
And all who watched him made the same report.
When the delirium was at its worst
His fevered brain was filled with worldly dreams,
And seemed to revel in the guilty joys
That he for once and all had long forsworn.
Now at a gaming table, flushed with wine,
And swearing roundly that the dice were loaded;
Now at a drunken revel, trolling forth
Ungodly songs that set mine ears ablaze;
Now at the chase; now breathing words of love
Into the ears of some fair wanton; then
Invoking curses on her wantonness!

Ans.
But spake he never of the holy life
That he is sworn to lead?

Dom.
Nay, never once,
Unless it were to curse the evil haste
That led him to it.

Ans.
It affects me much
To hear these tidings of our well-loved Faustus.
I knew that, ere he took his holy vows,
He led a life of sin, and for that cause
I more rejoiced his heart had turned to grace.
But, see, he comes. Leave me alone with him.
I'll speak to him as father speaks to son.

Dom.
May Heaven speed thy work.

[Exit Dominic.
Enter Faustus.
Ans.
Come hither, son.
The kindly brothers who attended thee
In thy delirium have no light cause
To think that, though thy priestly ministries
Are to the letter faithfully performed,
Thy heart is bent on worldly matters still.

Faus.
Of what do they complain? Can any say
That I have failed in my observances?
That I have spoken ill of any man?
That I live not a chaste and sober life?
That I am loth to pray with dead and dying?
Are not my priestly duties well discharged?

Ans.
Would that all priests within these sacred walls
Took thee for an ensample in these matters.
But who can read the inmost heart of man?
The lips may move in prayer, and but the lips.
Speak to me frankly—tell me by what means
Thou wast induced to quit the world without,
Its fleeting pleasures and its lasting pains,
For the pure calm of these monastic shades?

Faus.
Oh, father, holy father, bear with me,
My heart is very sore!

Ans.
Come—tell me all,
Fear nothing; speak to me as to thyself.

Faus.
How shall I speak to such a one as thou
Of an intense and all-believing love,
Betrayed, abandoned, trampled underfoot?
Of pure and simple faith in one fair woman—
Unswerving faith—faith, absolute and whole—
And of the deadly agony that came
Of finding that well-trusted woman false?
All the more false for the divine truth-promise
That played upon her fair and placid brow;
All the more false for the hot passion-vows
That leaped, in hurried whispers, from her lips!
I gave her all the wealth of my rich heart—
I lived upon her love—I fed my life
With the sweet poison of her lying lips
In utter trust. God help me!—one dark day,
In the high noon of all my happiness,
My heart upraised to heaven, in gratitude
For the fair promise of our coming life,
She left me, for a man whose proffered love
Had formed the theme of many an idle jest.
But he was rich—and so—she went to him!
At once the open volume of her life
Lay plain before me, and I read therein,
That she was—womankind!
Mad with the frenzy of a shipwrecked heart,
And with the old fond test-words of our love
Ringing a mocking echo through my brain,
I cursed the world and all the women in it,
And here sought sanctuary.

Ans.
Ah, my son,
This haven from the tempests of the world
Should not be sought in bitterness of soul.
Only the pious heart, turned heavenwards
From very love of heaven, will here find rest,
Till Heaven, in its good time, shall garner it.
But take good heart. I'll talk with thee to-night,
And, with the help of Heaven, give thee good counsel.
Be comforted—the world without is hollow,
As thou, in thine hot wrath, didst reckon it.
Thy wrath had reason in't. Be comforted!

[Exit Anselm.
Faus.
“Only the pious heart, turned heavenwards
From very love of heaven!” Fit formula
To typify the fierce, embittered cynic,
Who, in heart-misery, sought refuge here,
As a poor, worried, over-hunted fox,
Cursing his persecutors, runs to earth
To lick his bleeding flanks in sulky peace,
And brood, in solitude, on men and dogs!
No hope! no hope! no hope! For life entombed—
For life cut off from life—a breathing man,
Wrapped in a winding-sheet of his own weaving!
A living heart, inurned and sepulchred!

Enter Gottfried, disguised as a monk.
Gott.
Good brother, pax vobiscum.

Faus.
Benedicite!

Gott.
Art thou the monk who, in the world without,
Was known as Faustus?

Faus.
Ay, the very same.

Gott.
I am a travelling Dominican
Sent to thee by the Prior of our Order;
Who, having heard much scandalous report
Of thy most heinous immoralities,
Instructs me, with all friendly privacy,
To urge thee to amend thy naughty life.
Or, if thou findest this impossible
(As there is reason to believe thou mayst),
So to conceal and cloke thy wanton ways,
That thou, at least, mayst seem to be a saint,
And so afford no handle to the grasp
Of the all-watchful enemies of our Church.

Faus.
Strange mission, strangely worded, holy brother!
What doth your Prior allege? And by what right
Dares he to counsel such hypocrisy?
Whence comes his information?

Gott.
From Sir Gottfried,
A very blameless, pure, and godly knight;
Who, once a boon companion of thy follies,
Hath since repented, and indicted thee
For that, despite thy vows of continence,
Thou livest the old life.

Faus.
Now, by the Truth,
Never lied Gottfried thus!

Gott.
Nay, by the Truth,
I speak his very words—and here's the proof!

[Throws off his robe, and appears as a young soldier.
Faus.
Gottfried! Is this indeed my dear old friend?

Gott.
The same indeed. Bound for the wars again!
My troop of horse is passing through the town,
And hearing that thou wast within these walls,
I asked for thee. A bearded brother came,
And with scant courtesy, he bade me wait
Thy leisure in the great refectory.
There, much perplexed to know with what address
I might most ceremoniously greet
So eminent a theologian,
I saw this rag-bag hanging on a peg—
Thou knowest the rest.

Faus.
I am rejoiced to see thee,
Despite thy ill-timed jest.

Gott.
And this Faustus!
The old dare-devil Faustus! Marvellous!
When last I saw thee, thou wast bravely clad
In coat of cramoisie, and by thy side
There swung the readiest rapier in the town!

Faus.
Hush, hush, these vanities are past and gone,
And many others with them!

Gott.
By-the-by,
There was a black-eyed wench—a plump brown rogue,
With full red lips, and twinkling ankles, too—
Dost recollect her ankles? No? I do!
Let's see—her name. What was the wench's name?
Has she gone with the other vanities?

Faus.
I prithee stop thy tongue. I loved the girl
And she was false to me. My heart died out.
I sickened of the world and woman's love,
And here sought refuge.

Gott.
Oh, for shame! for shame!
To hold the world to be a hollow world
Because one heart has proved a hollow heart!
Now hear a parable. But ten days since,
A swindling huckster gave me a bad ducat;
Now, by my head, I thought that ducat good:
It seemed so fair and bright—and as it lay
Upon my open palm, I read thereon
A pious legend, drawn from Holy Writ!
Believing that a ducat, wreathed about
With such a goodly warrant, could not lie,
I loved that ducat, and I trusted it!
Well, well, the ducat proved to be but base.
With a deep sigh—for gold is scarce with me—
I cast that ducat from me. But did I,
On that account, forswear all ducats? No!
My love for ducats—and my need of them—
Are just as keen as ever!

Faus.
Peace, old friend.
I am a priest, who once forswore the world
Because he thought all women false. Think you
That being priest, and sitting day by day
In yon confessional,
I have seen cause to hold my judgment cheap?

Gott.
Plague on thy judgments! Judgments ready-made
Are counterparts of garments ready-made,
That fit some well, some ill, some not at all.
I know a maiden, scarce eighteen years old,
Fair as the apple-green of early dawn,
Pure as the summer sun of southern heaven;
A psalm incarnate—an embodied prayer,
Not of the earth, yet dwelling thereupon;
Nor yet of heaven—although her mission be
To teach mankind that heaven is worth the winning.
I have seen sturdy brawlers sheath their blades
To humbly doff their hats at her approach;
And when she's fairly out of hearing, then
Draw a long breath and go their ways in peace,
As though the air were charged with loving-kindness.
Rude gallants, in whose eyes all womankind
Are but the subjects of licentious jest,
Stand back abashed as Gretchen passes by,
And hush their converse into decency.
Young wanton girls weep tears of honest shame,
And old men think of angels and the heaven
That is to crown their closing pilgrimage!

Faus.
(interested).
Who is this maiden?

Gott.
My dead uncle's child,
An orphan, dwelling twenty leagues away.

Faus.
Thou lovest her?

Gott.
Ay, as I love the truth—
As I love purity and innocence—
As I love heaven and the good life to come!

Faus.
Well, well—go on—she is thy kinswoman.
Thou hast a goodly presence—and I know
Thy heart is honest. Thou hast told thy love?

Gott.
I, dare to speak of love to Gretchen? No!
I'm a rough soldier—barrack-born and bred.
My life's a tavern life—my closest friends
Are all rough soldiers; and the air I breathe
Reeks with unholy jests and fumes of wine!
I, dare to speak of love to Gretchen? Why,
My tongue would shrivel at the blasphemy!

Faus.
Why, what's all this?
Thou'rt going from her, and thou dost not dare
To tell her of thy love? She is the pearl
Of maidenhood, and yet thy heart is faint
Because she is the pearl of maidenhood?
Up, man! Take heart of grace! Thy love is honest,
Thy face is fair—thine heart is true and sound—
Thou art a soldier, marked for fair reward.
Up, man! Take heart of grace! No fretting vows
Stand betwixt thee and such an earthly heaven!
To think that this most miserable man
Has all this boundless treasure in his reach,
And hesitates to grasp it! Up, faint heart!
Come, boot and saddle, and away with thee,
Ere some more daring and less worthy suitor
Step in to take her from thee!

Gott.
(astonished).
By my hand,
'Twas Faustus spake then—not the holy friar!

Faus.
I spake as man to man—as friend to friend.
I love thee; and if such a woman live
As thou hast pictured, take her to thine heart
While yet thou mayst. Had I loved such a one
I should not now be wearing out my life
In these sad solitudes!

Gott.
(sadly).
There spake the heart,
And not the lips.

Faus.
(recollecting himself).
May Heaven pardon me!
I knew not what I said!

Gott.
My dear old friend!
Come, I must say farewell, my troop awaits me.
We ride through Lutzen. I shall see her there. (Trumpet heard without.)

“To horse!” Dost know the sound?

Faus.
(sighing).
I know it well!

Gott.
I'll warrant me thy trusty soldier-heart
Bounds as of old, despite thy monkish frock,
At the old trumpet call!

Faus.
These things are past!
May God protect thee in thine enterprise,
And give thee safe and speedy conduct home.

Gott.
Amen to that. So, Faustus, fare thee well!

[Exit Gottfried.
Faus.
He's gone! gone forth to the fair, fruitful world:
The world of life and love, the world of hope,
Of open hearts and unchecked sympathies!
Oh, foolish priest, misleading and misled,
Poor trickster, ever duping, ever duped—
Cheating thyself into a mad surrender
Of all that youth holds dearest: cheating others
Into blind trust of thy sincerity!
Thou art a man—the world was made for men!
Thou hast a heart—thy heart is idle here!
A curse on all this maddening mummery,
This life-long lie, this living catacomb!
Earth, heaven, hell, whichever hears me now,
Come to my call, and bring me back to life!

[Thunder, lightning; Mephisto appears.
Faus.
Merciful Heaven, defend me! Who art thou?
What dost thou here, and what wouldst thou with me?

Meph.
You called me, and I came in hurried haste,
Lest the two other powers whom you invoked
Should be before me in the race.

Faus.
Who art thou?

Meph.
A travelling clock-cobbler, who repairs
The moral timepiece when it's out of order.

Faus.
A truce to riddles.

Meph.
Then I'll speak more plainly.
Some clocks are well made, some are roughly fashioned,
And need much tinkering; springs weaken, snap,
Wheels loosen, dust gets in, and time is lost;
Men lose all faith, and put the liar by
As something worse than useless. I, clock-cobbler,
Wind up the moral timepiece, make new faces,
Repair this wheel, that spring, mend here, mend there;
In short, I do my very best to make
A timepiece that has lost its character
Pass for a trusty herald of the hour.

Faus.
Get thee behind me, for I know thee now,
Despite thy fair disguise!

Meph.
Oh, pardon me,
I've no disguise. This is my own fair form.
I'm not the horrible embodiment
You doctors of the Church have painted me—
A very Satyr, with a dragon's tail—
A nursemaid's devil! Oh, shortsighted priests,
My policy is to allure mankind,
Not to repel them!

Faus.
What wouldst thou with me?

Meph.
A proper question! Why, you summoned me!
It is a leading principle with me
That no one ever needs to call me twice.

Faus.
I spake in haste. I did not weigh my words.

Meph.
That may be, or it may not be. I have
A character for promptness to maintain,
And can't afford to risk my reputation
On the mere hazard that your words were idle.

Faus.
You've saved your character, and so depart—
Prime cause of sin—accursed of God and man!

Meph.
Unjust—illogical! But you're a Churchman.
Prime cause of sin! Why, evil comes from good,
As oft as good from evil. Motives? Pooh!
Why, half the ills that vex mankind arise
From motives that are unimpeachable.

Faus.
If goodly seed, well sown, bear evil fruit,
The fault is scarcely with the husbandman.

Meph.
But why sow any goodly seed at all,
If evil may result from doing so?

Faus.
Why try to stop my sowing goodly seed,
If it produce the crops that please you best?

Meph.
He's hit the blot! This clear-cut brain of his
Is wasted in this world of half an acre!
Cast off thy frock—come forth with me. The man
Who can detect my sophisms at a glance
Is safe enough, without the galling chains
That fetter him to prayer and solitude.
Come forth with me;
There's a fair field without these gloomy walls
For such a brain as thine—a merry world,
Teeming with song and dance—a grateful world,
Where gallant deed and brilliant enterprise
Meet with their due reward—a loving world,
Where kindred hearts may chime in unison.
Come forth with me!

Faus.
Peace—get thee hence away.
My vows are taken!

Meph.
Ay, and so they are!
Vows not to dream of the gay world without—
Vows not to sigh for temporal vanities—
Vows so to chasten, quell, and mortify
Your natural craving for a woman's love,
That it shall sicken, wither, starve and die
From lack of sustenance!
Rare vows, and rarely kept, I make no doubt!
Why, man, you break them every day you live;
You break them when you weep upon the grave
Of broken hopes and blighted sympathies—
Of wrecked ambitions, and the hundred tombs
That crowd this solitary sepulchre!
You break them when you let your memory loose
To revel in the rich, ripe luxury
Of luscious lips, soft cheeks and glancing eyes,
The violet breath—the press of warm, soft hands,
Or the crisp frettle of disordered hair,
That wooed your flaming cheek, as, half ashamed,
The maiden nestled, blushing, on your breast—
And yet you plead your vows! Like some I know
Who pray for mankind in the aggregate,
And damn them all in detail!

Faus.
Tempt me not.
I left the world of women for these walls,
Because I found a woman false as thou—
I'll not return.

Meph.
Illogical again.
“As one is so are all.” Sound argument!
You gather generals from particulars
Like all your brood. Why, there's no harm in women.
I didn't make them! They're my deadliest foes!
Why, he who of his own unfettered will
Cuts himself off from pure communion
With blameless womanhood, withdraws himself
From a far holier influence than he finds
Within these sad and silent solitudes.

Faus.
Strange sentiments from such as thou!

Meph.
For that
We devils, as you Churchmen please to call us,
Are not the simple folk you take us for;
We are shrewd fellows in our homely way,
And look facts in the face. I know a maid,
A fair and gentle girl—the pink and bloom
Of all that's loveliest in maidenhood,
Whose simple truth and pure and blameless life
Have done my cause more harm in eighteen years
Than all the monks in Christendom can mend!

Faus.
Is this indeed the truth?

Meph.
Ay, though I tell it.

Faus.
If there live such a one as thou hast painted—
A maiden—pure as the blue breath of heaven,
Into whose virgin heart no dream of ill
Hath ever crept—the bloom of whose pure lips
Is yet unbrushed by man's polluting touch;
Whose life is open as the very truth—
A perfect type of blameless maidenhood,
Take me to her, and I will learn of her.

Meph.
Humph! No, I'd rather not.

Faus.
And why?

Meph.
You see,
We devils have our consciences. In vice
We can do nearly all that man can do,
But not quite all. There are some forms of sin
From which we shrink—and this is one of them.
I have no stomach for such worldly work.
Best get a man to help you.

Faus.
Mocking fiend,
Misjudge me not. As there's a heaven and hell,
I mean the maid no wrong. I'll take thy help,
If thou wilt give it me. But be forewarned;
I'll make no compact with thee. Set me free,
And I will fight thee with the holy aid
Of her pure innocence. Be thou forewarned.

Meph.
I like your frankness! Well, you're not the first
Who's tried to rise to heaven on my shoulders!
Humph! I don't know. I am a match for you.
But, you and she allied! The odds are heavy!
Well, I'm a student still, and always glad
To glean experience when and how I can.
I'm curious to see how this will end;
If for me—good; but if against me—well,
I shall but lose you, and you're no great stake.
And so I'll risk it. See! The maiden comes!

[A vision of Gretchen is seen, gliding across the stage, through the tombstones; she is reading a breviary.
Faus.
(entranced).
Great grace of Heaven!
Is this indeed a form of mortal mould?
Speak, tempter, speak!

Meph.
Ay, flesh and blood, like yours,
Taken, haphazard, from a world of women!
How say you? Is she not exceeding fair?
Is there not innocence in every line
Of that pure face? Is aught more virginal
Than the sweet sadness of those downcast eyes
Bent on her breviary? And yet withal,
There is a wondrous world of latent love
Within that maiden heart. The girl will love
As few can love, when the full time arrives;
So take good heed, deal gently with the maid,
Or harm may come of it—and that were pity!

Faus.
If there be truth in heaven, there's truth in her!
If there be heaven on earth, there's heaven here!

Meph.
Ay, verily! Why, when I look on her,
I'm almost tempted to turn saint myself;
What would the world do then! Well, what say you?
The choice is well before you. On one hand,
Quibbling chop-logic—lip and letter worship—
Flesh idly mortified—unreasoning dogma—
The shallow sophistries of means and end—
Straws split, and split, and split, and split again—
Each section in itself infallible,
And all dissentients damned! And on the other,
Peace, charity, and mercy, simple faith,
Gentle good-will and loving kindliness.
Come, priest, what say you? Quick—my time is short.

[The apparition raises her eyes from her book and turns to Faustus, holding out her hand to him.
Faus.
Spirit of peace—divine embodiment—
Henceforth be thou my faith—be thou my Church!
Be thou my guide, my hope, my monitress!
Henceforth the beacon-light of thy pure soul
Shall shed its light upon my onward path,
And I will follow whither it may lead!
Spirit of purity, I come to thee!